


Feels Like the First Time

by Gemmiel



Series: Feels [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Bunker Fic, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, Self-pleasuring, dean/cas - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 00:49:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemmiel/pseuds/Gemmiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel discovers that being human is very different from being an angel, physically speaking, and Dean helps him explore the differences. AU for season 9 in which Cas goes straight to the bunker and Sam heals spontaneously from the trials.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a simple AU in which I bypass all that messy plotty stuff from season 9 (skipping April and Zeke entirely) so that I can write some fun smut with a touch of domestic bunker fluff. I really just wanted to write a short story from Cas' POV in which Dean teaches a virginal Cas about self-pleasuring, but as usual it turned out a little longer than I had planned. 
> 
> I know I'm behind on my other story updates; it's been a busy week, what with Thanksgiving and family and an extra kid home for the holidays. I thank all my readers for their patience and am writing as fast as I can:-).

The first night in the bunker, Castiel was too tired to do anything except sleep.

 _Get your ass to the bunker,_ Dean had said, and so Cas had. Along the way, he’d met three separate angels who tried to kill him. He had “ganked” (as Dean would have put it) two of them with his silver blade, and sent the third running for her life. He'd also been menaced by several humans, but the sight of his expertly-held blade had been enough to dissuade any of them from actually attacking him. He’d found out what it truly meant to be homeless, sleeping under bridges and in boxes, and discovered that he really didn’t like it much. He’d also learned what hunger was, and had liked that even less.

But when at last he’d staggered up to the bunker door and knocked, the Winchester boys had wrapped their arms around him (which Cas appreciated more than usual, as he was uncomfortably aware he reeked of sweat and blood and other, less pleasant substances), dragged him inside, and plied him with the glorious earthly ambrosia known as cheeseburgers. He’d drunk his fill of cold water, too, and then Dean had directed him toward a shower. He’d scrubbed off layers of filth, then stood under the hot, powerful rush of water for a long time, enjoying the sensation of the spray pounding against his stiff, sore muscles.

When he’d finally gotten out (very reluctantly, and only because the water was beginning to cool), he’d dried off with a big fluffy towel, and discovered that someone had left him clean, fresh-smelling clothes-- a pair of sweatpants and an old rock band t-shirt that he’d recognized as Dean’s. He’d pulled on the clothing, happily aware that he was home at last.

Dean and Sam had given him his own bedroom, and he’d collapsed onto the soft mattress, covered himself with the clean sheets, and slept for fourteen hours. 

In the morning, he’d awakened with a strange sensation in his lower regions, which he was able to identify as an erection. He was aware that what Dean called “morning wood” was a normal state of affairs for a healthy male body, but since he’d lost his grace, he’d been too exhausted, ravenous, and generally miserable to notice his body’s behavior. He wasn’t even certain he’d _had_ an erection up till now. But now that he was clean, fed, and well-rested, he supposed that normal physiological responses were probably to be expected. 

It was slightly disconcerting to realize he no longer had total control over this body, but an erection was not the compelling and overwhelming experience he’d somehow imagined it would be, either. He did not feel any great urge to run out and fornicate. In fact, the fact that his stomach was rumbling seemed far more urgent. He considered the matter, and decided that the mild pressure in his penis felt more like the need to urinate than anything. He got up and staggered blearily to the bathroom to pee, and his erection subsided.

He left on the t-shirt, but changed into a pair of jeans the Winchesters had thoughtfully provided, and also found that someone had left him a toothbrush and toothpaste. He brushed to get rid of the unpleasant, furry sensation clinging to his teeth and tongue, then looked in the mirror and discovered that his hair was defying gravity in a most appalling way. When he had been an angel occupying a vessel, his hair had always remained precisely the same—rumpled but civilized. But he’d begun to realize that was no longer the case. His hair was dark and thick, and overall rather nice, but nature had apparently played a cruel joke on this body by ensuring that he suffered from an absurd case of bedhead in the mornings.

He ran his fingers through his hair in an attempt to make it lie down properly, and when that had little effect, he dampened it and slicked it back against his scalp. He looked in the mirror and decided Dean would say he looked like a “dork,” but he felt that dorkhood (or was the correct term dorkiness?) was preferable to looking as if he’d just inserted his finger into an electrical socket.

Feeling somewhat presentable, he opened the door to his bedroom and wandered out into the hall. The bunker was large, and he had been too exhausted last night to really take note of his surroundings, but he had no trouble finding the boys. He simply followed the wondrous fragrance of food that hung in the air. His mouth, he discovered, was watering. 

“Oh, look, it’s Sleeping Beauty,” Dean drawled as Cas stumbled into the kitchen area. He had barely taken note of the space last night, exhausted as he was, but now he glanced around, seeing stainless steel cabinetry, a large gas stove, and a big, homey pine table. Sam was seated at the table, reading the newspaper, and Kevin was nowhere to be seen-- perhaps he was still sleeping, or more likely engaged in his favorite activity, studying. Dean stood at the stove, cooking, and from the pans arrayed in front of him arose the odors that pervaded the bunker.

“Mmmmffff,” Cas said, less than brilliantly. He had intended to say “good morning” or some similar human courtesy, but his mouth didn’t seem inclined to cooperate. He fell into one of the wooden ladderback chairs at the table with a grunt. Dean turned around, a smile tilting the corners of his mouth, and sent an amused glance in his direction.

“Jesus, look at you. Not a morning person, are you? Sam, get this man some coffee.”

Two cups of coffee later, Cas felt less like a shambling corpse, and more like a functioning human being. He happily devoured everything that was put in front of him—eggs “sunny side up,” which apparently meant they glared at him with baleful yellow eyes, and bacon and sausage patties and toasted white bread and orange juice. He was slathering grape jelly on his fifth piece of toast when he became aware of the Winchester boys watching him with identical expressions of amusement. 

He faltered with the piece of bread halfway to his mouth. Dean, he suddenly realized, was eating much more slowly than he himself was, and Sam seemed to be restricting himself to bagels with low-fat cream cheese. He was abruptly conscious that he’d eaten far more than either of them.

“Am I eating too much?” he asked, aware of the plaintive note in his voice, but unable to prevent it. “Have I committed a violation of human etiquette?”

“Nah.” Dean grinned across the table at him, and spoke through a mouthful of bacon. “S’nice to see someone else eating decent food, actually. Sam won’t eat anything I cook—"

“That’s because everything you cook is a heart attack waiting to happen,” Sam grumbled under his breath.

“—so I’m glad you’re enjoying it. Want some more eggs?”

Reassured, Cas considered the question carefully. “Please,” he said at last, ignoring Sam’s mutter of _Geez, guys, how about I just call 911 now and save us the trouble later?_

He sat at the table and watched as Dean got back up and padded across to the stove. _Padded,_ because he was barefoot. For a fierce and renowned hunter, six foot one inches of muscle and steel, a man of violent action and sudden death, he looked surprisingly comfortable in front of a stove, startlingly domestic. He looked like home, Cas thought. He wore an old rock t-shirt not unlike the one he’d given Cas (except where Dean's read _Foreigner,_ his own was inscribed _Journey_ ) and a pair of old, tattered jeans that cupped his rear lovingly. Cas stared at that part of Dean’s anatomy, studying it carefully (Sam cleared his throat at this point, for no reason that Cas could determine), and found that he felt that peculiar sensation in his lower regions again.

He shifted in his chair, a bit surprised by his body's reaction. The term “morning wood,” he knew, referred specifically to the phenomenon of male erections upon awakening. This, therefore, was not “morning wood,” despite the fact that this was definitely still morning. Nor was he entirely “woody.” It felt as if his penis were partially erect, as if it were considering growing hard but hadn’t quite made up its mind yet. As if it were responding to an external stimulus of some sort.

He tilted his head, considering Dean’s rear (Sam cleared his throat again, and Cas wondered if he were coming down with a cold due to the trials he’d suffered through), and wondered if a visual stimulus might be enough to cause an erection. He recalled Dean’s enthusiasm for pornographic pictures and videos, and decided that if Dean was a typical example of a human male, then visual stimuli were almost certainly adequate. But this seemed like a peculiar thing for him to react to. Dean’s rear was nicely rounded, to be sure, and it moved in an intriguing way with every step Dean took, but it was entirely covered by denim, and was not even remotely pornographic. 

And yet Cas’ erection did seem to be swelling. He studied Dean’s rear more thoroughly, trying to determine if it was in fact the stimulus that was causing his problem, and Sam cleared his throat, very loudly. Cas turned his attention away from Dean and blinked at Sam.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, fine,” Sam muttered, but Cas was fairly certain he was lying, because Sam’s face was flushed a rather bright pink. Cas looked at him questioningly, but Sam, whose gaze was normally honest and straightforward, refused to meet his eyes, and instead studied the crumbs of his bagel with great intensity. 

The former angel forgot the matter when Dean brought him another two eggs and a slice of bacon. He went back to eating with happy enthusiasm, and his erection subsided.

*****

Some erections, Cas discovered later that day, did not go away so easily.

Dean had discovered him moping in the library. Cas had been slumped on the large, overstuffed couch, staring at the rows of worn leather spines on the bookshelves, wondering if he had a purpose anymore, or any reason to justify his existence. Dean had wandered in, and had seemed to take in everything Cas was thinking—his depression, his anxiety, his worry that he was no longer of any use and that the Winchesters might kick him out—in a single glance. But because Dean was Dean, there was no “chick flick moment,” only a cheerful slap on the shoulder.

“Might as well put you to work,” Dean had said. “We need all the help we can get cataloging this crap. C’mon, maybe you can help me identify a few of the things we can’t figure out.”

Cas rose to his feet obediently, pushing away the gloom that had inexplicably overtaken him, and followed Dean to one of the bunker’s many rooms, where the two of them worked for several hours looking through numerous objects the Men of Letters had acquired and stored. Cas' millennia of accumulated knowledge helped him identify several items the Winchesters had been confounded by. He was pleased to feel useful, and the unpleasant sensation of depression slowly left him. Sam, who seemed to have entirely recovered from the trials, had made a supply run to the store, taking Kevin with him, which meant it was just the two of them. That was fine with Cas, who still found himself more comfortable with Dean than any other mortal.

He found himself talking to Dean about his adventures on the road, although he tried to keep it light, and make humorous what had not seemed at all funny at the time. He learned from Dean that the boys had been frantically trying to track him down and rescue him, which gave him a warm and contented sensation in the pit of his stomach. It was nice to feel wanted.

Dean was bent nearly double, rummaging in a file cabinet, when Cas happened to look up from the carved stone object he was currently studying and noticed Dean’s rear again. That somewhat uncomfortable sensation made itself known again, and he shifted in his seat. It occurred to him that he should look away from the visual stimulus that seemed to be causing the problem, but he couldn’t seem to avert his eyes. He stared, admiring the way Dean’s body was put together, the grace and sheer poetry of it, until Dean straightened up again. At that point he looked away with a jerk of his head, but he was already…

Well, _hard._

He was extremely grateful he was sitting down. He returned his focus to the object in his hands, or tried to, but he couldn’t seem to forget the image of Dean’s denim-clad posterior. His _ass,_ that was what Dean would call it. He sat there, staring at the object but seeing nothing but Dean’s ass, while his erection grew so hard it was almost painful.

“Hey.” Dean was looking at him, looking a bit worried. Despite his aversion to “chick flick moments,” Dean was an astute judge of human responses, sensitive to shifts in other people’s emotions, and he probably understood intuitively that the transition from angel to human could not be an easy one. “You okay, buddy?”

“I am fine.” Although he had always been socially awkward, Cas was aware that _I have a large erection_ was not a suitable topic for conversation, and he cast about for some other excuse for his distraction. “I think I may be growing tired.”

“Hell, you’re probably hungry. It’s way past lunchtime. C’mon, I’ll make you a sandwich.”

Dean headed for the door, and Cas watched him go, his gaze drawn inevitably to Dean’s ass. This did nothing to help alleviate his problem.

“I will be there in a moment,” he said. “I would like to write down the facts we have established about this object so far.”

Dean nodded and disappeared out the door, leaving Cas alone with his annoyingly rebellious body. He put the object aside and looked ruefully down at his crotch. His penis had swollen to the point where it was pressed against the denim quite uncomfortably, bent and compressed into a space that was too small for it, and he wondered what to do about it.

Food had served as an adequate distraction last time, so he thought about food, or tried to. He envisioned sandwiches. Probably not as delicious as eggs or bacon or cheeseburgers, but pleasant enough, and very welcome after a morning spent cataloguing. He thought about Dean putting ham and cheese and bread together for him, bending and looking in the refrigerator, his jeans outlining his—

He became aware that his thoughts had drifted right back to Dean’s ass. He uttered a rude word in Enochian, and sighed. His erection was worse than ever. He had the vague idea that pressure might help—after all, the problem was excessive blood flow, and thus reducing the blood flow seemed to be a logical solution—and so he pressed the heel of his hand hard against his erect flesh.

And gasped.

It felt extraordinary. Intellectually, he had known that humans enjoyed physical stimulation of their genitals, but he had not quite managed to comprehend how good it could feel. Physical pleasure was not something angels generally indulged in, even when they took a vessel. There were exceptions, of course, but he himself had never felt any compelling need to explore the sensations his vessel was capable of.

He now realized he had been missing out on a great deal.

He pressed again, causing pleasure to jolt through his body like an electrical shock, and swallowed back the low moan that rose from his throat. He wanted—no, he _needed._ He needed to press more, harder, faster. He needed physical stimulation very badly.

But any moment now, Dean would come to tell him that lunch was served, and he knew that finding him like this, his hand pressing on his genitals, would make Dean very uncomfortable. Cas was still uncertain of his place in this little makeshift family, and the absolute last thing he wanted to do was make either of the Winchesters uncomfortable. Instead of touching himself, the way he wanted to, he pulled his hand away and bowed his head, forcing his mind back to the last few days, remembering what it felt like to walk, lost and frightened, through the cold rain, shivering, bedraggled, alone.

The unpleasant memories made his body more cooperative, and within a few moments he was able to stand up and follow Dean to the kitchen.

He carefully avoided looking at Dean's ass for the remainder of the day.


	2. Chapter 2

That night, Cas couldn’t fall asleep.

It was strange, he thought, staring at the ceiling of his room. Last night, he had tumbled into bed, full and warm and safe, and unconsciousness had claimed him almost instantly. But tonight, sleep seemed determined to elude him. In a way, he felt like he had while he’d been traveling toward the bunker, when he’d been always on alert, muscles taut and body tensed against attack, afraid to close his eyes for fear that he’d never open them again.

Except tonight, he wasn’t afraid, precisely. It would be more accurate to say he was jittery and tense, and couldn’t seem to turn off his brain.

He was, he realized reluctantly, thinking about Dean sprawled out in his own bed, right across the hall.

He found he had an erection again, swollen against his stomach and bobbing a little despite the confinement of his boxers. Really, penises were the most irritatingly inconvenient things. It was a miracle that human males managed to accomplish anything at all.

He thought perhaps the silvery light from the almost-full moon outside his window was contributing to his insomnia. He rolled over, pressing his face into the pillow, and tried to empty his mind, but it stubbornly refused to be emptied. He couldn't seem to stop thinking of Dean. He'd missed the other man, missed him in a way he hadn't thought he was capable of. He'd ached for him, both emotionally and physically, and now Dean was so close...

Thoughts of Dean wearing the old Foreigner shirt and boxers filled his mind, and he imagined getting up, padding quietly across the hall, and slipping into bed next to Dean. Would Dean toss him out, or would he just slip an arm around him and draw him close?

Cas wasn’t sure. He was reasonably certain that he meant as much to Dean as Dean meant to him, that Dean was very fond of him, that his affection for Cas even had a physical component that might possibly lead to a sexual relationship. But he was not sure that Dean was aware of this. Dean seemed to firmly self-identify as a heterosexual, and to be genuinely oblivious to any bisexual tendencies he might have. 

Cas didn't want to distress Dean, or to upset his heterosexual apple cart, as it were, and so he felt very strongly that crawling into bed with Dean was not an option. Dean might just be “freaked out” enough to make Cas leave the bunker, and that was the one consequence he could not bear to contemplate. Having finally made his way home, he did not want to leave.

His erection was trapped between his body and the mattress, and that felt oddly constricting. He shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position, and his erection rubbed against the sheets.

Oh. That was… pleasant.

Pressure against his erection felt good, he remembered. He moved his hips again, experimentally, and an intense pleasure shot through him. 

That felt nice. It felt very nice. Even through the boxers, he could feel the friction, and it felt incredible. He did it again, and again, until his body trembled. His fists clenched the sheets of their own accord, and he pressed his face harder into the pillow so as not to make any sort of noise. 

He thought about Dean, right across the hall, and his hips thrust harder against the mattress. He imagined the way Dean smelled, the particular shade of leaf-green that his eyes turned in the sunlight, the way his voice sounded, low and rumbling. Need gripped his testicles, clenching tightly, and he couldn’t smother his groans any more.

The slight creaking of the door’s hinges were all the warning he got. And then Dean was poking his head into the room.

“You okay, Cas?”

Cas froze. An unfamiliar emotion swept him in a hot wave. He thought perhaps it was embarrassment. 

“I am… fine,” he managed, slightly surprised to find that he could manage an articulate response. “I was just…” He cast about frantically for some socially acceptable reason that might cause him to be groaning into his pillow in the middle of the night. “I had a bad dream.”

“Thought you might've.” Cas heard the faint padding of Dean’s bare feet on the wooden floor as he walked across the room, saw the dim form of his body as Dean made his way through pools of moonlight slanting through the window. Then the bed shifted slightly as Dean sat down on the edge. Cas struggled to hold back another groan. 

“I’m fine now,” he said, doing what humans called “lying through their teeth.”

“Dude. How can you be fine?” Dean’s hand reached out and stroked his hair. It was a comforting, paternal gesture, one Cas had seen Dean use on a distressed Sam more than once. It was not intended in a sexual way, but his overstimulated body took it that way. He shivered. Dean went on, his voice low and soothing, “The way I see it, you’ve just been born, kind of. You got turned into a human and thrown down here without anyone to help you out, and you’ve been through hell the past week. Of course you’re freaked out. Who wouldn’t be?”

“It was… just… a nightmare.” Cas found it increasingly hard to talk. His entire focus, his entire being, seemed to have shrunk down to the feeling of Dean’s hand carding through his hair. He both hoped Dean never stopped, and longed for more intimate touches.

“You want to talk about it?”

Cas seriously doubted his ability to improvise a description of a dream he hadn’t actually been having in the first place. “I’m… fine,” he said through his teeth, which were clenched together for some reason he couldn’t determine. 

“You want me to sleep with you?”

Cas’ brain exploded. At least that was what it felt like. Everything went white briefly, and his ability to speak seemed utterly compromised. At last he managed, “What?”

“I can sleep in here tonight if you want,” Dean said. His voice was low and soft, carefully nonthreatening. “That way if you have a bad dream, I can wake you up. It helps sometimes.”

He spoke with the assurance of someone who’d suffered through many bad dreams. And he had. Cas had been there for him many times, soothing his panic after nightmares, even though Dean had never known it. At least he’d always believed that. Now it occurred to him to wonder if perhaps Dean had been more aware of his presence than he’d realized.

 _I would like that,_ he almost said, but guilt stopped him. He didn’t like lying to Dean. He blurted out, “I was not in fact having a bad dream.”

“You sure? You were making all these noises, and…” Dean trailed off, as if the obvious alternative had occurred to him. At last he said quietly, “Oh.”

“My body seems to be possessed of a mind of its own sometimes,” Cas grumbled. He knew he sounded cranky, but he couldn’t help it. Human bodies were so much _trouble._ He’d barely gotten adjusted to the fact that his body required water and food and sleep on a regular basis, and already it was clamoring with a new need. Irritating.

“Yeah, okay, I get it,” Dean said. Cas couldn’t see him clearly in the darkness, but he suspected Dean was blushing. Dean had always been blunt and honest about his own sexuality, but could be oddly prudish about others’ sex lives. “Sorry I barged in, but I thought—“ He broke off, sounding embarrassed.

“I know, and thank you. But I am… fine.”

Dean’s shadowy figure turned to go, and then hesitated. “You sure, Cas? You… got it all figured out? What to do, I mean?”

Cas rolled onto his back and studied Dean. Even in the darkness, he thought Dean looked tense, his shoulders squared more than usual, his spine straight. Cas had been fairly sure he had the general idea of what to do, but he certainly couldn’t claim great expertise in the subject. “I assume,” he said cautiously, “that the matter is reasonably self-explanatory. Fourteen-year-old boys figure it out, so I imagine I can as well.”

“Yeah, but sometimes it can be a little uncomfortable if you don’t…” Dean hesitated, then blurted out, “Do you have any lube?”

“Lube?” Cas considered that for a moment. “Don’t you use that on the Impala?”

Dean burst out laughing. At last he said, still chuckling, “Lube and motor oil are two different things, dude. But yeah, same principle, I guess. Moving parts need lubrication, or there’ll be chafing. And trust me, there are some places you don’t want chafed.”

Cas remembered the discomfort of his erect penis pressed awkwardly behind his jeans, and nodded. He understood what Dean meant. 

“I have no lube,” he said. Even if he’d had a lot of extra money to throw around, it hadn’t been the sort of thing he would have thought to buy. In any event, he’d been more interested in purchasing food and water. “But I believe the male body produces its own lubrication…”

“It kinda depends.” Dean shifted on the bed, moving closer. “You want me to… to help?”

It sounded like a typical Dean Winchester come-on: _Hey, babe, want me to help you with that?_ He’d heard Dean use that line on women countless times. But he’d never heard Dean utter it with such sincerity. He suspected that Dean was in fact “coming on” to him, but he also sensed that Dean was more serious about this than he was when he flirted with women he scarcely knew.

But this was a very intimate activity, and he was fairly certain it was not something friends usually shared. Which meant that if they did it together, the two of them might become more than friends. The thought sent a stab of longing through him at the same time it set off alarm bells in his brain. He wasn’t quite certain he was ready for something more. Not now, when he was only a few days old as a human, when every sensation was new and overwhelming, when he hadn’t the foggiest notion what his purpose was here on Earth any longer. He was laboring under a heavy burden of confusion and uncertainty.

But if there was one certain thing in his world, he thought, it was Dean Winchester.

He and Dean had been friends, and more than friends, for a long time now. He knew of no descriptive term, whether in English or Enochian, that could properly describe their relationship. They were simply… close. Extremely close. He couldn’t see that this was likely to change that.

He didn’t believe anything on Heaven or Earth could change it.

“Yes, Dean,” he said at last, softly. “Show me what to do.”


	3. Chapter 3

Cas heard a soft exhalation, as if Dean had been holding his breath. And then Dean was rearranging himself on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. “Sit up,” he whispered, and when Cas did so, Dean pulled him up so that Cas was situated between his long, denim-clad legs. Cas let his head fall back, resting on Dean’s shoulder. 

Dean’s hand slipped down to Cas’ abdomen and began stroking up and down. At first his hand remained on the old t-shirt, but before long it slipped beneath it, so that he was caressing Cas’ bare skin. Cas shuddered, and his erection, which had softened during their conversation, promptly stiffened again.

Dean’s hand moved a little lower, pushing the boxers out of the way. “Okay,” he said softly. “Show me how you do it.”

“I haven’t…” Cas struggled to form words. “Not yet. I was just… the mattress…”

“Dude, you’ve been human for like a week now. Have you seriously not done this yet?”

“We are not all gifted with your ridiculously strong sex drive,” Cas said, as snarkily as he could manage. 

“Still. If I became something totally different, the first damn thing I’d do is find out what it felt like, you know? It’s just a matter of… intellectual curiosity.”

“Intellectual curiosity,” Cas scoffed. “Is that what you call it?”

“Yeah, it is. And when you were an angel, wearing Jimmy Novak, you never…?”

“Never,” Cas said. He remembered the time Dean had tried to “hook him up” with a prostitute, and his resultant panic. He simply hadn’t understood the human drive for sex at that point in time, and the whole experience had frightened and disturbed him. He’d kissed the demon Meg later, and understood it a little better. The kiss they’d shared had been pleasant, if not overwhelming, simply because he’d developed something of a fondness for the demon. 

But today he’d finally begun to understand what humans found so compelling about sex. This was so much more than merely pleasant. His body wanted release, _demanded_ release. His body burned for this, in a way it had never burned before. 

“Jesus,” Dean muttered. “I should’ve done this a long time ago.” He bent his head, and spoke right into Cas’ ear. “Take yourself into your hand, Cas.”

Cas hesitated, feeling awkward and uncertain, and Dean sighed. “Your dick, Cas. Wrap your fingers around it.”

Obediently, Cas did as he was told. His penis—his dick, Dean had called it—twitched a little in his hand, and he trembled.

“That’s it,” Dean said softly. “Exactly right. Is it wet enough?”

Experimentally, Cas moved his hand. The head of his penis—no, his _dick_ ; he was human now and was going to have to get accustomed to using vulgar slang appropriately—was surprisingly slick. He nodded jerkily.

“Wet your palm with that,” Dean said softly.

Cas made a fumbling effort, and Dean sighed again. He put his hand over Cas’, guiding his movements, moving his hand in a circular motion over the head of Cas’ dick until his palm was wet. Then he guided Cas’ hand back down, closing his fingers around the shaft. He began to urge Cas’ hand up and down, using his own hand to control Cas’ motions.

Cas sighed with pleasure. He was torn between trying to watch, as well as he could in the moon-silvered darkness, and closing his eyes. His eyes drifted shut, more or less of their own accord, and he let his head drop back on Dean’s shoulder.

“Wet enough?” Dean whispered in his ear.

“Not… sure.”

“Okay, let’s try this.” Dean stirred behind him, pulling something out of his pocket. He took Cas’ hand and pulled it away for a moment, drizzling something thick and wet on it. “Use that.”

Cas presumed the substance was lube. Obediently, he wrapped his hand around his dick again. It was cold, and he shivered, but as he moved his hand it began to seem to warm up, and it did make the motion of his hand much smoother, and much more comfortable. He moaned a little, the sound torn out of him involuntarily.

“Fuck, yeah,” Dean breathed. “There we go.”

He guided Cas’ hand, moving it slowly from root to head and back again. It felt so good that Cas whimpered. He wanted to move his hand faster, but Dean wouldn’t let him. He pressed his nose into Dean’s throat and made a plaintive sound.

“No rush,” Dean whispered, his hand tight on Cas’, controlling him. “The longer it takes, the better it’ll feel. Trust me, Cas.”

He did trust Dean. He trusted him more than he trusted anyone, or he wouldn’t be sitting here, leaning against Dean in the darkness, allowing Dean’s hand to control him this way. But he also knew what his body wanted, and it wasn’t this slow, methodical motion. He made a small, irritated sound in the back of his throat, and Dean chuckled.

“Okay,” he said. “Give me your other hand.”

Cas lifted his left hand, and Dean took it, guiding it to the head of his dick. He took Cas’ forefinger and ran it around the sensitive head, which created a delicious sensation that made chills go down Cas’ spine. The ex-angel got the idea, and while one hand slowly pumped his shaft, he used the other to stroke the rounded head of his penis. He could feel moisture spilling out of the little slit at the tip, and Dean guided him into slipping his finger through that. He groaned at the pleasure of it.

Before long, he was steadily pumping himself with one hand and teasing the head of his dick with the other. Dean’s hand slipped away from his and began to play with his testicles—his balls, Cas reminded himself; he was a human now, and needed to use human slang. 

Cas’ heart stuttered in his chest, because Dean was touching him directly now. Not just controlling the motion of Cas’ hands, but actually _touching_ him, rolling his balls gently in the palm of his hand, stroking and playing with them with a tender gentleness one wouldn’t expect from a man whose business was killing. 

It felt good. It felt so much _better_ for Dean to be the one touching him. Without thought, Cas let go of his own dick and reached down and caught Dean’s hand, guiding it to the swollen shaft of his erection.

Dean hesitated, just for a second, but then his hand wrapped around Cas, and he began stroking, very softly. An impossible wave of pleasure rolled over Cas, drowning him in heat. He rolled his head against Dean’s shoulder, nuzzling and kissing and nipping at Dean’s neck, hardly aware that he was doing it. Dean smelled like leather and gun oil and clean sweat, and Cas breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of him.

“Dean.” His voice sounded deeper than usual to his own ears. “Dean, please…”

“Soon.” Dean’s hand jerked him steadily, and Cas felt his own hips rising up automatically, thrusting his dick eagerly into Dean’s hand. It was as if his body followed the rhythm Dean set, without any conscious decision on his part. This was all so instinctive, so animalistic. His body responded as if it had done this many times before, so easily led by instinct that Cas was startled by it. He had thought this would be difficult to learn, but the rhythm of it was written in his every cell, imprinted in his muscles, part of him down to the very bone.

Cas was leaking moisture now—precome, he thought it was called—and the lube was still slick, and his dick slipped easily against Dean’s palm. Dean had take over stroking the head, too, and his fingers trailed around the sensitized skin so lightly it almost tickled. His callused forefinger found a particularly sensitive spot on the underside of the head, making Cas’ spine arch and his eyes slam shut. He groaned.

“You’re gonna come for me,” Dean whispered in his ear. 

“Yes. Please.”

“You’re gonna come all over my hand, all over everything, so fucking _hard_ …”

Cas attempted to say _yes please_ again, but all he managed was a whining sound. There was an almost intolerable pressure in his dick and balls now, and his hips moved hard, meeting the increasing pace of Dean’s slick, warm hand jacking him. Dean kept whispering dirty things into his ear, telling him how he was going to come, how good it was going to feel, how loud he was going to scream, and Cas reached behind him and clenched his fists into Dean’s t-shirt, clinging for dear life, because he felt like this was far out of his control now, and all he could do was hang on for the ride and try not to fall off too soon.

He was vaguely aware that he was groaning, sobbing, making undignified noises that would ordinarily embarrass him—because he was an angel of the Lord, a warrior, and these were not the sort of noises that any warrior would ever make—but he couldn’t seem to hold them back. He hoped, very sincerely, that the bunker was well soundproofed, or Sam and Kevin would know exactly what was going on. 

Dean was groaning too, between whiskey-dark whispers of what he wanted to do to Cas, all the ways he wanted to make him come, all the ways he was going to touch him with hands and mouth and body, and for the first time it dawned on Cas’ befuddled mind that Dean was enjoying this too. 

He was making Dean feel pleasure, _turning Dean on,_ and that knowledge made his body light up, all the nerves flaring beneath his skin, all his muscles tensing. He found that he was wet with sweat, and heard himself panting harshly for breath.

The heat swelled inside him, _so good so good so good,_ and he clung to Dean’s t-shirt desperately, bracing himself for the grand finale. _So close,_ Dean was muttering in his ear, _so close, God Cas you’re so fucking hot like this, fuck yeah, look how hard you are, you’re gonna come for me and it’s gonna be so good,_ and Cas moaned out Dean’s name, because it was the only word in his mind, the only word in his heart, and he wanted to come with Dean’s name on his lips.

Intellectually, he knew what should happen next. The two of them were engaging in manual stimulation of the penis, leading to ejaculation. That was all this was, when reduced to the scientific knowledge of human reproduction he’d always had. As an angel, he’d always thought it all seemed rather silly, had never understood precisely why humans got so worked up about the various forms of sexual interaction. He’d thought of it as a biological necessity, and nothing more.

But this was so much more than he’d ever imagined. It was the heat of ecstasy and the warmth of belonging and the sharp edge of need and the soft cradle of Dean’s arms around him, holding him tightly as he brought Cas this wondrous pleasure. For the first time he realized that he’d never before fully grasped the full beauty of his Father’s design, the way sex was so much more than mere reproduction. He’d never understood the fullness of it, the way it could seem dirty and urgent, yet exalted and profound, all at once. Sex, he thought, was driven by animal instinct, and yet it was a clear and beautiful expression of the human spirit. 

Dean’s hand moved harder, and Cas’ thoughts faded into a white fog. He flung his head back, giving himself totally over to the sensations, and to Dean. He thought he was about to achieve what he so desperately wanted, but Dean’s hand slowed again, and Cas whimpered in frustration.

“Please, Dean.”

“You want it?” Dean’s hand was moving very slowly now, taunting him, tormenting him. Cas felt his own teeth grinding together.

“Yes. Please.”

“Ask for it some more. Ask real nice, and maybe I’ll give it to you.”

The warrior in Cas wanted to turn around and smite Dean for daring to slow down at this point, when his need was so terribly intense, but he remembered Dean’s words: _The longer it takes, the better it’ll feel. Trust me, Cas._ He did trust Dean, and he knew the other man was only trying to make this experience a memorable one. In any event, he remembered, he’d lost his smiting ability along with his grace. Which meant that Dean had the upper hand here. 

A good warrior, Cas thought wryly, knew when to surrender. He opened his mouth with a gasp, and frantic, garbled words fell out of their own accord. "Please, Dean, please, I have to—I can’t—please, I’m _begging_ you—"

He must have sounded desperate enough, because Dean’s hand moved on him suddenly, almost brutally hard, and Cas cried out his name as an enormous wave of rapture broke over him. It was truly a heavenly sensation, he thought, only barely aware of his own come spurting all over the t-shirt he wore, all over Dean’s hand. Pleasure rolled through him for a long, heartstopping moment, while he cried out Dean's name over and over again in frantic, breathless sobs. Dean kept stroking him, caressing every last bit of come from him, drawing every last spasm of pleasure from him, but at last he fell back against Dean with a gasping sigh, and Dean released him.

“ _Shit,_ ” Dean said into his hair, his arms wrapped around him. 

Only Dean Winchester, Cas thought with foggy affection, could make a crude term for excrement sound like a prayer. He nuzzled sleepily against Dean’s throat.

“Swanice,” he mumbled, trying to say _that was nice_ and not succeeding particularly well.

Dean’s arms tightened around him. “Yeah, that was awesome. You were so goddamn hot...” He uttered a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “I came in my jeans like a fucking fifteen-year-old.”

Cas had been so caught up in the throes of his own pleasure that he realized, with a touch of guilt, that he hadn’t given any thought to Dean’s. The knowledge that he’d somehow created the exact same pleasure in Dean warmed him. The ecstasy he’d felt was something he wanted to share with Dean. He suspected it was best when shared.

“Glad you came in,” he said, finding that it was growing easier to speak coherently.

“Me too.”

Something occurred to Cas, and he lifted his head off Dean’s shoulder and squinted at him through the silvered darkness. “Wait a minute,” he said suspiciously. “You thought I was having a nightmare… and you brought lube with you?”

Dean’s eyelashes fluttered down, concealing his eyes. Cas couldn’t be sure in the darkness, but he had a feeling Dean was blushing. “Well,” he said. “I wasn’t totally positive you were having a nightmare.”

“You knew exactly what I was doing,” Cas accused, and now he was absolutely certain Dean’s cheeks had flushed. Even in the dim light he could see them growing darker.

"Yeah, well, so what if I did?" Dean sounded defensive, and perhaps a little anxious. "Did you mind what we did?"

Cas reached back and stroked Dean's hair. It was damp with sweat. He knew his own was wet as well, and probably standing up all over his head in spikes again. _The perils of being mortal,_ he thought, almost smiling. He decided he could live with ridiculous daily bedhead if it also meant this sort of physical pleasure, and this sort of intimacy. Being human had its downside, but it also had decided advantages.

"I definitely did not mind," he said, and Dean relaxed against him. He pressed his nose into Cas' hair.

"Dude, you're a mess. So'm I. We ought to get cleaned up."

Cas thought about that for a moment. "There's a shower right down the hall."

Dean stiffened. "Yeah, but Sam and Kevin... seriously, we can't..."

"I never took you for a coward," Cas said, throwing down the challenge deliberately. He could almost feel Dean's hair bristle with outrage beneath his fingers.

"Blow me, Cas."

"I fully intend to," Cas said, and laughed softly as he got out of bed and headed for the shower, Dean behind him.


End file.
